


Fated Allegiance

by TheScarletGarden



Series: Drabbles & Short Stories [10]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff, Jonerys, Jonerys Secret Santa, No White Walkers, One Shot, Romance, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 09:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17119094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarletGarden/pseuds/TheScarletGarden
Summary: For a long time, Daenerys had known she would need to marry in Westeros. She wasn't naive, she always knew she would need to strengthen her position in the eyes of the Westerosi lords through marriage.Her clever Hand had been corresponding with his former wife, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, to broker a marriage with her half-brother, Jon Snow, the King in the North. It was the best strategical match, Tyrion assured, with little competition in a continent that had been depleted of eligible suitors by a long succession of foolish, bloody wars.Written for the Jonerys Secret Santa 2018 initiative.Merry Christmas, DoodlebugQT! I hope you will like it! ❤️





	Fated Allegiance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoodlebugQT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoodlebugQT/gifts).



> I have so many people to thank: my friend starkgaryen4life, who talked me out of a terrible writer's block and suggested I made this an AU; the lovely aliciutza that made the stunning moodboard you see down there, and all my Soft Bitches for their support and patient endurance of my ramblings (especially you, Iane_Casey). I love you all. ❤️
> 
> Betaed by my guardian angels, LustOnMyFingers and Enygma0710 (that ending is almost all hers, lol). I don't know what I would do without your constant help and support, you've been my point of reference all throughout this year of writing. ILY.

 

 

Daenerys gripped the rail of the ship with gloved hands. There was a chill in the air she wasn't used to, the cold salted spray of the sea causing the pale skin of her cheeks to redden. She could feel Tyrion's eyes on her, and she knew her Hand was clever enough to read into her anxiety.

"Don't worry, my Queen," he finally spoke, no doubt aware of the cause of her turmoil. "I met the King in the North when he was nought but a boy and I liked him. Kind, reliable, honourable, if a bit naive. But he was only four-and-ten at the time, no doubt he had more than one occasion to grow out of it if he ended up with such a title despite being a bastard."

For a long time, Daenerys had known she would need to marry in Westeros. She wasn't naive, she always knew she would need to strengthen her position in the eyes of the Westerosi lords through marriage.

Her clever Hand had been corresponding with his former wife, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, to broker a marriage with her half-brother, Jon Snow, the King in the North. It was the best strategical match, Tyrion assured, with little competition in a continent that had been depleted of eligible suitors by a long succession of foolish, bloody wars.

Jon Snow would bring her the support of the entire North, the biggest and most difficult to control of the Seven Kingdoms, and through his sister, the support of the Vale and the Riverlands, too. It was more than she could hope for than any other match in the entire country, and in addition, the Starks had every reason to despise the False Queen's rule and to desire Cersei's demise.

Daenerys had immediately agreed with the betrothal, its strategical advantages clear as daylight. Still, the young woman beneath her queenly persona couldn't help but feel nervous at the prospect of accepting to marry a man she never even met.

She wasn't scared – she was a dragon, after all, and the gods help those who would bring her harm ever again – but a tiny part of her regretted not having the freedom to let her heart decide – to hope that there would be someone out here that she could love and would love her in return, that would love _Dany_ as much as the imposing Mother of Dragons.

Up in the sky, Drogon reflected her emotional turmoil, giving a mighty screech above their heads. Her heart reached out to him through the tether of their bond.

“I had to marry for politics before, my Lord Hand. I'm not all too worried about it,” she finally said. Tyrion gave her a knowing glance, turning to look silently at the horizon, where the sun reflected on the walls of White Harbor, casting a shine to where her future lied. 

* * *

Jon was so nervous he was afraid he was going to be sick, a grimace on his face as the ship approached – the mighty three-headed dragon of House Targaryen roaring on the black sails.

Sansa had assured him that everything would go smoothly, and he had no reason to doubt that, politically. His concerns were of another kind, his mind's eye still seeing the disgusted grimace Catelyn Stark reserved to him every time she would lay her eyes on him, the mocking sneering of the few ladies he had had the misfortune to meet, the disdain that even his sister had held in his regard, before she thought she had lost everyone but him.

And now, this Queen in her own right – not even _Lady_ would be an appropriate title, for the gods' sake – the last of a dynasty that had ruled over Westeros for three hundred years, a dynasty that had married brother to sister to keep their bloodline pure – what would she think of him, the Bastard of Winterfell? Was he condemning himself to a life of sorrow, barely tolerated by his powerful highborn wife?

Under the privacy of his bulky fur cloak, he couldn't help but fidget ceaselessly, until Ser Davos' hand gently posed on his shoulder, an understanding, knowing gleam in the eyes of his advisor. 

* * *

A small retinue was waiting for them on the docks, the white banners of House Stark flapping in the cold Northern wind, other banners of minor houses displayed just behind. The rugged faces of Lords and warriors of the North – for they hadn't knights up here, she knew – looked up at her with indecipherable expressions. An old man, grey hair and kind eyes, stepped forward.

“Yer Grace,” he nodded respectfully, “Welcome to White Harbor. May I present to you Lord Jon Snow, the King in the North,” he announced, pride clearly shining in his eyes, in his voice, as he gestured towards a younger man, a figure clad in dark clothes with little embellishments.

Dark grey eyes bore into hers, a depth in them that surprised her, almost making her gasp. The King in the North was a handsome man, looking younger than what she had imagined.

He stood on the deck, his lean form swallowed up in his attire consisting of boiled leathers and bulky furs. There was an air of sombre quietness about him, yet she could glimpse the steel in his eyes, a commanding presence that, paired with the sobriety of his garb, made him look more like one of those powerful warriors of old who's fantastical stories littered her books. There were faded scars on his face, but instead of marring his beauty, they only served to enhance it further.

He was observing her as attentively as Daenerys was observing him, this stranger King that would soon be her husband, a marriage decided by their common hatred towards the False Queen. He bowed slightly as she stepped closer, taking her proffered hand in his gloved one and softly touching his lips to her knuckles.

“Welcome to the North, Your Grace.”

His voice was a low burr, his rough Northern accent making it even deeper. Daenerys imagined how her name would sound in his mouth.

He gave her a small smile when he released her hand, and she couldn't help but smile back. 

* * *

Jon could barely believe his own two eyes. He had heard the rumours surrounding Daenerys Targaryen, how they said she was the most beautiful woman in all the known world, but he had paid little mind to them, judging them as bootlicking and exaggerations. As it turns out, none of what he had heard was a hyperbole.

Daenerys Targaryen was absolutely stunning, the sight of her stealing his breath away. Clad in white furs, her silver curls dancing softly in the air, the tiny snowflakes catching in those long lashes framing eyes of the most incredible colour, her pink lips shivering slightly in the cold... she truly looked like a Queen of Winter, the sight so unexpectedly lovely it made his heart skip a beat.

She slowly descended from the ship, a small retinue of advisors and guards following her closely, strange, foreign faces from Essos, and Tyrion Lannister the only recognizable one.

The Queen stopped a few steps from him, observing him intently with those striking violet eyes. Once again, anxiety menaced to swallow him whole. Would she like what she saw? Will she ever be able to look past his bastardy, to forgive him the slight of tainting her blood?

Jon barely heard the long list of titles the caramel-skinned woman recited in perfect Westerosi. He could only look at her watching him, a sense of nervous anticipation in the pit of his stomach.

At his side, Davos subtly cleared his throat, and he snapped from his trance. He bowed and took her proffered hand to greet her. He could feel the warmth of her skin even through the leather of their gloves, a radiating gentle heat that made him linger in his contact a bit longer.

"Welcome to the North, Your Grace," he forced the words through the lump in his throat, managing a small welcoming smile.

She smiled back, a glimpse of white teeth behind plush pink lips, the gesture making dimples appear on her cheeks. It was so bright, so sweet a sight, warmth seeping in his heart as she posed her arm on his elbow, letting him escort her to their mounts.

Overhead, he could hear the distant screech of her dragons, the mighty beasts that somehow answered only to their mother, this tiny young woman walking at his side.

* * *

"There it is," the King in the North announced after they had ridden all the way up a snow-covered hill, gesturing towards the horizon. "Winterfell."

Her lips parted in a silent gasp of surprise at the sight.

The castle was different from any she had ever seen. Grey and commanding, much bigger than what she had anticipated, round towers jutting out towards the sky. The white-and-grey direwolf banners fluttered into the wind, she marvelled at the sight. It was so different from Dragonstone, still as imposing although in a much more subdued way.

As she took the magnificent sight in, she could feel Jon Snow's eyes on her. She turned to look back at him, surprised at the small worried smile on his lips. Was he afraid she wouldn't like his home?

“It's beautiful,” she murmured, beaming reassuringly at him.

“Aye, it is,” he replied, never taking his eyes off of her, even as they started moving towards the castle again.

The sudden cry of a horn signalled they had been seen by the guards at the gate, the massive wooden doors opening to allow them entrance. They rode through them, stopping right at the center of the courtyard, their advisors and guards pouring in right behind.

What remained of the King's family was lined up in the courtyard to greet the arrival of the Queen. Daenerys knew what had happened to the Stark family, Lord Tyrion had recounted the story in detail to her, but there was still something rather unsettling in seeing them in person for the first time. They were all so young, even younger than herself, but there was an air of perseverance to them that made it clear they had known loss and had to become stronger in order to survive. _Just like I did._

The King moved towards his family, hugging fiercely all three of them in turns. Then he turned towards her, and formally introduced her, presenting all of his siblings in turn.

Lady Sansa Stark was a tall, slender and beautiful woman, the warm smile on her face did little to conceal the steel in her striking blue eyes. She curtseyed perfectly to her, her manners the image of the perfect Westerosi Lady. Her face was hard to read, but Daenerys didn't miss the soft smile and respectful nod of her head she gave her Hand.

Next to her stood Arya Stark, her resemblance to her older brother so striking it was impossible to miss. Despite her tiny form, she had the confident stance of a warrior, and she looked at her like she could see straight into her heart. She seemed to welcome her, anyway, a smile on her long face that almost broke into a girlish grin when her children swooped low over the courtyard, lazily fluttering their leathery wings.

Arya Stark didn't cower at the fearsome sight, but instead, her controlled facade broke into an expression of pure awe, and Daenerys amusedly thought she might have something to talk with her about.

Lastly, sat on a wheeled chair beside his sisters, there was Brandon Stark. The youngest, although he had the eyes of an old soul. There was something highly disquieting about his gaze, a vacuity Daenerys didn't really know how to interpret, but the young lord smiled and grasped her hand nonetheless.

* * *

“You have a lovely home, Jon Snow,” she said with an honest smile on the third day. There was a trace of childlike wonder in the way she observed her surroundings, reaching out a hand to catch the snowflakes on her palm.

“I feared you would find it dull, here in the North,” he replied with humour. She widened her eyes, looking mockingly outraged at his suggestion. She had a playful streak, this mighty Queen, that was as unexpected as charming.

"I travelled a lot, seen many cities. Beauty is everywhere, sometimes it just looks..." she widened her arms, gesturing at their surroundings, a teasing grin on her angelic face, "harsher."

He scoffed a laugh, amused. Harsher would be an understatement. Even though Winterfell had a warm, homely feeling to it that surprisingly appealed to many, the frigid winter climate and the hardened warriors were still a far cry to what he imagined her palace in Meereen might have looked like. He tried to imagine her for a moment, clad in colourful silks, her lovely face kissed by the sun. It made for a nice picture.

“What is your favourite part?” she asked suddenly, breaking his train of thoughts.

“My favourite part of what?”

“Of your castle, Jon Snow,” she clarified with a grin.

“Oh, that would be the Godswood. Would you like to see it, Your Grace?” he asked, offering his elbow.

She placed her hand on it, smiling. “With pleasure, my King.”

They walked in silence, the snow falling slowly all around them. Gradually, the noises from the courtyard diminished, and soon they were shrouded with a comforting quiet. Daenerys Targaryen looked so beautiful he had to remind himself to breathe, clad in furs the same colour of her wavy locks and of their wintery surroundings.

The cold created a pink flush on her cheeks and lips, and he could barely look away from her face.

“It's beautiful,” she murmured when they found themselves in the sight of the crimson-leafed Weirwood tree to which his family had prayed for generations. She stepped away from him, approaching the glorious tree slowly, respectfully, grazing a reverent hand on the white bark. She turned to look at him, smiling. The sight made him feel warm, unfurling something he once thought dead in his resurrected heart.

“Oh!” Daenerys suddenly gasped, amethyst eyes going wide as she stared at something right behind his shoulders. He turned to take a look, only to see Ghost slowly padding towards them, the white wolf silent as the falling of snow.

“It's alright,” he reassured her. “It's only my direwolf.” Ghost stopped right beside him for a moment, then stalked slowly towards Daenerys. He looked curious, showing no signs of hostility.

“ _Your_ direwolf?”

“Aye, I found him as a pup. We Stark children all used to have one,” he explained, a brief pang of grief at the thought of his family still alive and well, all that time ago. “His name's Ghost.”

“Hello, Ghost,” she unexpectedly crooned, offering a hand for him to sniff. “Oh, aren't you a beauty?”

If the act of approaching a grown direwolf as one would a lapdog shouldn't have surprised him – she was the Mother of Dragons, after all – Ghost acting like said lapdog surely made his mouth fell open. The giant wolf licked at her hand, tail wagging wildly, and then pressed his whole body on her, presumably to solicit her to pet him, instead, Ghost all but engulfed her tiny form and caused her to fall bum-first in the soft snow.

Jon quickly moved to help her, feeling mortified, but she only laughed that crystalline laugh of hers and stood, scratching the culprit right behind his ears. "Oh, he's wonderful, Jon," she murmured, enraptured by the beast of myth that was now licking eagerly at her face.

Did he think his heart left in the darkness of death? He was nought but a fool, for the scarred bastard was more alive than ever, threatening to burst out of his ribcage. He never thought he would live to witness such a sight, a warrior Queen that tamed direwolves like she did her dragons, a woman so lovely she looked like she came out of a fairytale, her snow-kissed hair blending with her surroundings, her amethyst eyes standing out like stars.

She was to be his wife, he suddenly realized, and for the first time in his life, he felt like everything was truly going to be perfect. 

* * *

The hall had been richly decorated to celebrate the end of winter and the alliance with the Queen, red and gold lanterns casting a warm glow on the stone walls. Pine garlands were hung along the walls, their fresh smell filling her nostrils. A thick blanket of snow covered everything in sight outside the narrow windows, the dim winter sunset glittering over it.

There was a special quiet to it. Daenerys had never seen snow before coming to Winterfell, but she found she quite liked it.

“Oi! Dragon Queen!” a booming voice bellowed from behind her. She turned, startled, to see the great red-headed giant of a man she had often seen in Jon Snow's company stalking towards her, a number of cups in his hands. The big grin on his bearded face looked friendly enough, but Daenerys still kept a wary stance.

"Here, here! Never thought that King Crow was to get married, eh? Drink!" He put one of the cups in her hands, unceremoniously, laughing and smiling and clinking his own against hers with such strength she was thankful for the metallic material, for he would have surely shattered the cups had they be made of glass.

The King, who was occupied talking with some lord or the other not too far away, turned his head, probably attracted by the great noise, and visibly paled. He stalked towards them, dread clear in his eyes, a worried, apologetic glance cast towards her. “Tormund-”

The big giant – he looked like a Wildling, from what Tyrion told her of the people of the North – silenced him with a powerful slap on his back, grinning like a fool. “None of that, King Crow. I want to know if the Dragon Queen here can handle a proper drink,” he winked at her, making Jon Snow scowl.

 _How charming_ , she mused, fascinated by the dynamics of the queer relationship that was unfolding before her eyes. Jon Snow looked a bit sick, throwing a deathly glare at the towering man, who in return seemed completely oblivious to it all.

Daenerys arched a brow at her betrothed, taking a quick sniff at the content of her cup. Ale, she decided, taking in the bitter smell. Not breaking the eye contact, she started drinking, draining the content in one go. Tormund – if she had caught his name right – boomed a great laugh. "Aye! That's how you do it!" He patted her back, too, not as mightily as he did the King, but still enough to make her wince.

“I like her, Snow,” he commented, turning to the King. “Try to not scare her away with that tiny pecker of yours, eh?” She observed with fascination as Jon Snow flushed crimson, and couldn't help but smile, amused.

Luckily, Tormund got distracted when a tall blonde woman in men's armour entered the crowded room, and he left before Jon Snow could say anything, stalking after her like a love-sick pup.

“I'm terribly sorry-”

“It's not necessary,” she laughed. “I find myself to be quite charmed, in fact.”

He looked utterly surprised, which only made her laugh more. “I lived with the Dothraki, Jon Snow. Your northern Ale, although awful, has nothing on fermented mare's milk.”

Jon grimaced, a sympathetic shine in his eyes. "Aye, that sounds terrible."

The King suddenly smiled, soft and warm, and raised his hand to gesture her to stay there. “I'll be right back.”

He reappeared soon after, offering her a golden cup, from it an enticing stream of steam spiralling into the chill air. "Mulled wine."

“Thank you,” she murmured gratefully, taking the warm cup in her hands, relishing in the sweet smell of spices filling her nostrils. She took a long sip, savouring the sweet hot wine on her tongue. _Much better_ , she thought gratefully.

“You can call me Daenerys,” she added almost as an afterthought. “We are to be wed, after all.”

The pink blush on his cheeks made her chuckle, the young King smiling adorably in response. “I figured you might find it more to your taste, Daenerys,” he explained.

Oh, but she found she liked this King very much. There was a sweetness to him that contradicted his strength as a warrior and the leader of the North, but to her, it only made him more endearing and his gentle heart shine brighter.

Dany had observed him closely since the moment she made his acquaintance, and she had noticed with relief how kind he was with everyone, smallfolk and noblemen alike, and how much he cared about his family. He had been nothing but sweet with her if a bit reserved, and she inwardly thanked her Lord Hand for setting up a match that didn't cause dread in her heart. 

* * *

Daenerys had been in Winterfell for a sennight when the Stark sisters snatched her away to Lady Sansa's solar.

“We want to get to know our future sister better,” Arya had explained, while Sansa made her sit down in a cushioned chair before the roaring hearth.

"I must admit I am exceedingly grateful for the food provisions you brought with you, Your Grace," Sansa Stark began, a grin on her beautiful face. "For we had run out of lemons a long while ago, and I had almost forgotten the taste of lemon cakes." Dany didn't miss the subtle roll of Arya's eyes.

“They are my favourite,” the tall Lady continued as she offered her a cup of fragrant herbal tea, gesturing to a plate of the tiny pastries.

“I find I quite like them too, my Lady,” Daenerys said, taking one from the plate and giving it a bite. It was delicious, the sweet taste of lemons making her moan in delight. “They remind me of my childhood.” It was a wistful murmur, but it managed to catch the other women's attention nonetheless.

Arya was the first to speak. "I was too young to remember correctly, but I know Robert Baratheon still hunted you and your brother when you were in Essos." There was sympathy in her voice.

“I have happy memories of my first years in Braavos, though, when Ser Willem was still alive.” She took a sip of her tea, the sweet memory tugging at her heart, of the old knight that had been like a father to her. Shaking her head, she lifted it to find two pairs of eyes, grey and blue, watching her intently.

There was a bit of silence, then Arya spoke. “I lived in Braavos for a time. That's when I first heard about you, the mighty Mother of Dragons that conquered Meereen. Breaker of Chains, they called you. I didn't know if any of it was true, and I would have never imagined I would find out the truth here, in Winterfell.” There was a smile on the girl's face, one that unexpectedly made the Queen yearn to let the words flow freely.

She had never really told the tale to anyone. She rarely found she could trust the people around her enough. But there was something about Winterfell, something that made her long for the childhood she had lost, a comforting feel in its heated walls and harsh, genuine people. Something that was amiss in Dragonstone.

Something that felt like home.

Daenerys took a deep breath to rein in her anxiety and decided to open her heart to the two women sitting in front of her. What was the worst that could happen? She was a dragon – they could not hurt her.

And so, Dany told them of Braavos, of the house with the red door and the lemon tree where she had known happiness, when she had been young and carefree. She told them of the time her brother had still been a sweet boy, his mind not yet addled by madness. She told them of the time when Ser Willem died, the stench of death in his room, and how she and her brother had been forced to live on the run ever since.

She left out many details in her story, still wary, still not used to letting other people view the depths of her heart. There would be time for that in the future, but nonetheless, it still felt liberating letting go of her stoic facade, even if just for a moment.

When she finished her tale, the other two women were looking at her with expressions of fascination on their faces, mouth slightly agape.

“So that's why you set out for the Throne, in the end?” Arya asked after a beat. “You want your home back.”

"I do," she nodded, resolute. "And I want to see justice done. I know what my father was, how his demise was completely deserved. But from what Ser Barristan told me of my mother..." she shook her head, chasing some of the pain away. "She was kind and good. What they did to my brother's children... nobody with a good heart and a clear mind could call that _rebellion_ and be fine with it,” she spat.

Lady Sansa spoke then, her voice steady, her eyes as cold as steel. “I didn't know your father, or your mother, or any of your family, Your Grace.” She placed her empty cup on the small table. “But I do know Cersei Lannister. I've heard what your father did to my family, and it pains me, but I _saw_ what that evil witch is capable of, she is just as if not more dangerous than King Aerys ever was.”

There were tears pooling in her eyes, but she strengthened against them. Dany admired her bravery, having more than an idea of the ordeals the poor girl endured, barely a child while in King's Landing. Tyrion had told her enough.

"She's power-crazed, paranoid, and was even unable to control her monster of a son. How can she be left to rule the Seven Kingdoms?" Sansa sniffed, looking at the flames in the hearth. "She blew up the Sept of Baelor, so many innocent people dead... she knew Margaery was in the Sept and the possible effect her death would have on her own son, but that didn't stop her. She was jealous of the unquestionable love and loyalty Margaery acquired with her short reign as Queen that Cersei could never muster over the years. The title of Beloved Queen she would never have." There was a tremble in her lips as she talked, speaking of raging emotions barely pent up.

Daenerys reached a hand out to grasp hers, then, squeezing it lightly. “I never knew her, but I knew her grandmother. She was old, but hardly frail. So fierce and cunning I sometimes wondered if she was secretly a dragon, too.” That managed to steal a chuckle from the red-haired lady. “Olenna didn't deserve to die, either. How many innocents has Cersei killed so far only to usurp a Throne that was never meant to be hers?”

Sansa's fingers threaded with hers and squeezed back, that determined confidence returning to her blue eyes. “This is an unprecedented alliance, Lady Sansa, and I have to thank you for it. We _will_ see her fall, and I promise you, I will do everything I can to be the kind of ruler the Seven Kingdoms deserves, with your brother by my side.”

A third hand reached for hers and Sansa's, Arya Stark smiling at them in that ferocious way of hers. “We'll see justice done,” she promised. “Sister.”

* * *

Sansa had supervised the organization of a banquet to celebrate their alliance, an occasion to make a show of strength and union in the eyes of the Northern Lords before the wedding took place. It was a good idea, Jon thought, to just sit at a table together and forgo for a moment the logistics of planning the war against the False Queen in the South.

He found himself strangely looking forward to it.

The noise of the cheerful lords became louder as he approached the Hall, and he figured some of them might already be well in their fourth or fifth cups.

His siblings were already at the great table, Sansa pushing Bran's wheelchair closer to the table, Arya surprisingly talking with Lord Tyrion. Jon hoped it didn't have anything to do with that game of faces of hers, but his sister looked relaxed enough. Stepping closer he realized they were both talking ill about Cersei Lannister.

 _Way to bond with my sisters_ , he thought amusedly, taking his place at the center of the table. There was a chair left free beside him, waiting for the Queen.

When she finally arrived, followed by her faithful handmaid Missandei, she was a vision. She wore a flowy dress in the colours of her House, the iridescent fabric reminding him of dragon scales. The cut of it was Northern, though, as was the fashion of the braid she wore, much simpler than the intricate hairstyles she usually preferred.

It tugged at him, the knowledge that she had wanted to pay homage to both their houses with her outfit, a show of unity that made him grateful.

He stood, moving her chair so she could sit. Daenerys thanked him with a bright smile. Jon sat down at her side, then nodded to the servants, who began to serve the food. Every plate was served first to Daenerys, then to him, the rest of the high table, and then to everyone else in the room.

Chatter and laughter soon began to fill the air, a cheery atmosphere that managed to bring a smile out of him. In the distance, he could see Tormund hitting on poor Lady Brienne, and nearer, Ser Davos telling stories to Lady Lyanna, the young Mormont for once looking like the young girl she truly was.

“He has a touch with children, doesn't he?” Daenerys asked after a while, nodding towards his advisor.

“Aye, that he does,” he nodded.

“Lady Mormont's loyalty is unwavering, but hard to conquer in the first place. I have a feeling Ser Davos helped immensely with that,” Sansa interjected, smiling fondly in the direction of the old knight.

“He reminds me a bit of Ser Willem,” the Queen whispered, picking his interest. His sisters seemed to know what she was talking about, which only made him more curious.

She seemed to notice it, _winking_ at him. “After dinner, Jon Snow. It's a long story.”

"I'll make sure to save some wine for it, then," he smiled, raising his cup in her direction. She clinked hers with his own, taking a long sip from it.

Conversation bloomed around the table, the tone of it thankfully light after all the long and serious councils they held throughout the week, defining the terms of their alliance and the war plans to follow. As boring as they were, they were usually followed by a walk in the Godswood with the Queen, which soon came to be his favourite part of the day.

The Queen was recounting the tales of her time in Essos, of the many places she had been. She was describing Vaes Dothrak, the marvels that could be found there, the imponent sight of the bronze stallions that were its gate.

"How long were you in Vaes Dothrak, Your Grace?" Arya asked, looking completely enraptured by the tale. Bran seemed to be listening as well, although you could never really tell for sure, the distant look in his eyes difficult to read.

“I can't remember for sure, especially the first time. I know that the second time was shorter,” she answered.

“The second time?” Jon asked. She had told him some things during their walks together, but she never mentioned being there a second time.

Daenerys grinned. "It was during the second time that I became Khaleesi of the entirety of the Dothraki. When I was attacked in the fighting pits in Meereen, Drogon saved me, but he left me in the middle of the Great Grass Sea to fend for myself. The Dothraki found me wandering there." She took a bite from her meal, seemingly thinking about what to say next.

His own fork stood at mid-air, concern suddenly enveloping him. He had a clue about the ordeals she had to go through, but the details of this one he never heard about. A part of him was surprised at finding himself feeling so protective of her already.

"When they found me, I was alone. They brought me to Vaes Dothrak to live among the Dosh Khaleen, as I was a widow to Khal Drogo."

“But that wouldn't do,” Arya smiled conspiratorially.

“Yes, that wouldn't do,” Daenerys winked. The complicity that had bloomed between the two made him feel content. “I had a city to rule, after all. I couldn't just sit there and wait for someone to come and rescue me, and Drogon wasn't cooperating, either.”

“So, what did you do?” asked Sansa, as enthralled as anyone at the table.

“She burned them,” Bran suddenly spoke, a faint curve on his lips. “She asked for the help of a Dothraki widow, asked her to close her inside the Temple with the Khals. They threatened her, and she burned the place to the ground.”

Daenerys looked suddenly disquieted. “How- how do you know that?”

“I am the three-eyed raven,” he simply stated.

“It means... he's a greenseer. He has visions,” Jon explained.

“Oh...” Daenerys hummed, seemingly curious. “Like dragon dreams?”

"Not quite, Your Grace," Bran smiled cryptically. "I am not gifted with visions of the future."

“I see,” she quietly muttered.

“You burned the place to the ground? But he said you were locked in there!” Sansa noted.

“Is that were the _Unburnt_ comes from?” Jon asked.

"That title is a bit older. I gained it the day my children were born."

Bran spoke again. “Oh, yes. You were so beautiful the day your dragons hatched, the flames engulfing your soot-covered skin-”

“ _Bran!_ ” Jon chastised him, noticing Daenerys growing more disquieted than what he liked.

“It's all right, my King,” she said anyway. “It sure is a fascinating gift, Lord Brandon.”

“Please,” his brother smiled, briefly looking like the lively boy he once knew. “Call me Bran.”

The rest of the dinner passed without incident, the Queen asking them stories about their childhood in Winterfell. Sansa told her of the time Robb lured them in the crypts, and Jon jumped out from behind a statue covered in flour, mimicking a ghost. Daenerys laughed delightfully at it, amused. She looked so lovely his heart did somersaults at the sight of her, so beautiful, so at ease with his family. Struck by a sudden bout of boldness, he cautiously reached for her hand under the table.

Daenerys silently gasped at the contact of his fingers with her own, a brief, surprised glance in his direction, breaking in a barely concealed grin. A fleeting sight before she schooled her expression again, clearing her throat. She intertwined her fingers with his, her thumb grazing his knuckles lightly, as he let out a contented sigh.

* * *

“You promised me to tell me about Ser Willem, remember?” he asked when they were finally alone, while he walked her back to her chambers.

"Right," she smiled, keeping her promise. Would she ever have imagined telling that same tale twice in barely a week, that dear tale of her distant childhood? It had little importance, she realized, for there was this sudden pull to let these people in, Jon especially.

And so she told him of the only fatherly figure she had ever known, of the happy memories of those early years of her life. Jon listened to her intently, trading them with some stories of his own, their bodies leaning delightfully closer as they laughed, careless and free like she rarely had the time to be.

“And does not Dragonstone feel like it?” he asked when she finished her wistful recounting, the pair of them come to a stop before her door.

“No, I'm afraid not,” she sighed. “And I have no illusions about the Red Keep, either.” She leaned a bit closer, biting her lip, feeling emboldened by the wine she drank at dinner and by his intoxicating closeness. “But I seem to understand, my King, that home isn't really a place.”

He hummed, his eyes growing dark, swallowing up her gaze in those deep, alluring depths.

“Winterfell made me understand it,” she added in a whisper, trying to convey with her eyes the blooming feelings her words still failed to express.

The implications were not lost on him as Jon blushed, an alluring pink flush spreading on his cheeks. He fidgeted, even as a smile spread on his face, the sight so rare and bright it made her breath catch.

"Sweet dreams, Daenerys," he murmured, those deep grey eyes boring into hers so maddeningly, that she stepped up on her toes and placed her lips on his, softly, slowly, savouring the sensation of their mouths touching, commending it to her memory to be held and cherished forever.

When she broke the kiss, his eyes were closed and his lips parted, a silent gasp coming from them. “You too, Jon Snow,” she whispered, turning to the door to her chambers.

He didn't give her the time, though. Strong arms snaked around her waist, spinning her around to let him attack her mouth, a passion in his kiss that she didn't expect, the fierce possessiveness of a wolf.

His tongue sought entrance between her lips, and she eagerly complied, sweet strokes and swirls against her own, one of his hands sliding up to the nape of her neck to draw her closer to him, the hard press of his body against her own making her moan. She secretly delighted when he lost all restraint. His kiss was a fire matching her own, a song that could tame dragons.

Jon broke the kiss, gasping for air, nipping at her lips, leaning into the touch of her hands finally sinking in those wild raven curls. He looked a little bashful when he finally opened his grey eyes, but he seemed to relax when she beamed at him, her heart filled with the hope, _no_ , the certainty, that she will love Jon Snow, that this won't be a passionless union, spiteful under the cold facade of courtesy, like her brief second marriage had been.

He nuzzled his nose against hers, a deep breath that spoke about his great capacity at controlling himself. “I want to be yours,” she whispered, because it was true, and she hoped it was the same for him.

Dany was about to kiss him again, to coax him into her chambers, when a throat loudly cleared at the other end of the hall, and feminine titters filled the air.

“The wedding is _tomorrow_ , Your Graces.” The voice of Arya Stark interrupted them, their titles mockingly pronounced. Sansa was laughing lightly, genuinely amused at the crimson blush that bloomed on her brother's cheeks. “Should we send Ser Davos to act as a chaperone?” she laughed with her sister, before taking her away, suppressing a fit of giggles, leaving them alone once again in the hallway.

“No,” Jon Snow chuckled and smiled, before kissing her again, a tender peck on the lips, the contact long enough to savour the taste of each other's mouths. “I want it, too,” he whispered, his breath tickling her skin. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she beamed. It was such a strange, new sensation, this want and attachment in her heart. She had dreaded her previous marriages, and now she could barely stay still at the prospect to be his.

Jon Snow gave her another sweet kiss before he bowed, biding her a final good night at her chamber door. She fought the urge to reach out and grab his arm, but the promise of the next day stopped her. _Yes, tomorrow_ , she repeated to herself. A new chapter in her life would be written in a few hours, a happier, more fulfilling one, written with the prospect of love.

 

**Author's Note:**

> To all my regular readers: I might take a bit of a break from Midnight, but I swear I will come back to it soon. In the meantime, I'm working to something new that you might like. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Don't be a stranger, leave a comment! :)


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